Dragons in the Basement
by soloscribe
Summary: Set throughout Season 2, with ch 1 set btwn "We Are Both" and "The Crocodile," and moving on. Rumple & Belle continue to work out this complicated relationship. Nothing is ever simple when it comes to these two. Much angst and occasional fluff. My first OUAT fic,so please be kind.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first OAUT fic, so please be kind. I love Rumbelle dearly, and I'm so glad it's cannon. These characters do not belong to me! Reviews are cherished. Rumbelle on, friends…

For many years now, Rumplestiltskin had tried very carefully _not_ to consider what he was missing. As soon as he had learned that she had thrown herself from the tower, he had locked away that little chink of vulnerability, buried it. Dead was dead, and he knew better than anyone that there was no way to bring it back. Why try?

The possibility of Belle in Storybrooke had never once crossed his mind. He'd never indulged in such idle pastimes of what it might be like to have her here, in his home, part of this strange world. He hadn't lived for the fleeting glances of a memory-robbed, petite brunette slipping into Granny's for a meal or casting a longing glance at the long-forgotten library. Although he might be lying if he didn't admit that he felt it was right that the library ought to remain closed up. It hinted at her, and he was more than content to let it be. How terribly ironic that this is where he chose to hide the most powerful magic. Dragon in the basement, indeed.

And then she appeared like a sprite. The confounded girl, the very one whose exact location he was ever conscious of in his dark castle, all but materialized in his shop. Only his little bell announced her arrival. His Belle. He still wasn't sure how he had managed to stand, shaken to the core both at her presence- her _existence_- and then at her condition.

She's in his home now, taking up residence on the sheltered third story balcony and nearly asleep in the one and a half size chair he dragged out there for her comfort. It doesn't surprise him in the least that the book in her lap is his car owner manual. The machine both startled and fascinated her. He could only imagine what would happen when she got her hands on a computer or PDA. Chances were, both would end up in parts on the table while she sought to understand its inner workings.

At the moment, however, he was far more concerned with her. "I don't suppose I could convince you to rest, hmmm?" he mused as he draped a light throw over her, tucking it gently around her bare feet. He wasn't sure what he had expected, after all this was to be her haven, but a very big part of him was surprised to return from his shop not even half an hour ago and find her still here. She hadn't been the only one afraid that this all might be a dream. He's still a little convinced it could be a nightmare for both of them.

"It's too beautiful a day to miss," she murmured, offering a sweet smile and following it up with a soft, "thanks."

He pressed a kiss into her hair, unable to resist the dark tresses, needing the physical contact to remind him that she was here. Very real. It was followed by a tea cup and saucer offered carefully, chamomile which was meant to soothe. He- Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One- had fretted over her tea for a full three minutes as he studied the choices in his cupboard, unsure which one Belle of the Enchanted Forrest would prefer. Ludicrous. And yet, she had this strange power to unnerve him in a way no other could.

Rounding the chair, he came to stand against the railing, leaning on it for support and watching closely as she sipped. His mind couldn't stop cataloging every nuance- her color, whether or not her hand trembled, if the circles under her eyes had faded much since the day before, whether she might still be feeling the effects of her stomach ache the night before or her nightmare that made her bolt upright in the small hours of the morning. Captivity had not suited her.

"Rumple, you're staring," she murmured before taking a cautious sip of the tea. Her soft hum of approval put him a bit more at ease. "I'm not a tea cup. I won't crack."

"No, you're worth much more than that and made of far sterner stuff," he agreed. The simple fact that she was as lucid and functional as this was a marvel. Twenty eight years, while only a small fraction of the centuries of his life, was no small amount of time to be isolated. He wanted to know everything-from whether she was kept in total seclusion, what she was fed, and the sordid details of Regina's involvement to who had freed her and how she had ever managed to escape the hospital and navigate the streets of Storybrooke without being stopped. Yes, he was most especially interested in who had freed her and how they knew where to find her. And yet he hesitated to ask, focusing on her and the more immediate concerns. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit tired," Belle admitted, quickly following it up with, "But better, really. I should've slowed down at tea last night... only everything tasted so lovely..." Although he did his best to keep the meals modest, she had eaten heartily, albeit sheepishly. He would have fed her for weeks and conjured up any delicacy her heart desired, but he restrained himself for the sake of her body that wasn't used to processing such rich foods.

"I have more medicine, if you need it," he offered, wishing he could simply magic away the tiredness and wariness that still lingered when she heard unfamiliar sounds. Oh how he wanted to magic it all away, but he was ever so keenly aware that all magic comes with a price- David himself had reminded him of this only a little while ago in his shop when he had stopped in to collect his maps and finish his plans to find Bae. No, he wouldn't pay any more prices like that, not with Belle. Not after their fight, only hours after their reunion, which had sent her into the maelstrom of a wraith and its hunger. He'd hated himself for that, and he drove around for a bit, searching streets and finally returning to his shop with the hope that she had found shelter and was most likely to return there, if she ever returned at all.

Her head shook slightly. "No, and that pink stuff was horrid."

His mouth quirked up into a ghost of a smile at the strength of her reaction. She had stared warily at the bottle for several long moments the night before, eyes bleary as they scrutinized the container. He'd warned her that the taste wasn't ideal, but she had still pulled a face after taking a tentative sip. Despite the chalkiness, she'd dutifully taken the full dose, and it managed to calm her stomach enough to keep her from getting sick and losing the much-needed meal. "But it did the job."

"Mhmm," she hummed in agreement. She offered up the manual to him. "Will you show this to me some time?"

He stepped closer and inspected the detailed schematic of his car's engine. Gods only knew how that was going to end. At least if he was present, he could be sure she didn't completely disassemble the entire thing. "Of course. But you must be careful when you look at it. Always make sure it's turned off and that they key isn't in the ignition."

"Ignition?" she asked curiously, already thumbing to the index.

His hand closed gently over hers. "I'll show you before we look at the engine. Some other day." It was rare that he used his car at all, generally preferring to walk. Walking kept his leg muscles stretched and made his right leg less likely to cramp. It did not ache as much as it had back when he was a mere village coward, and that had been a small comfort in this world that was far different from what he had expected when he conjured up this curse. Despite all of his careful planning, research, and crafting... well, so much was unexpected, unintended.

One delicate hand reached around him, brushing lightly against his suit jacket and feeling. "What do you have?"

"Oh this?" he answered, voice neutral as he let her hand catch his wrist and draw forward a small, plain paper sack. "A gift." He relinquished the bag and watched closely as she gave him that look of confusion before opening it carefully. "It's not combustible, sweetheart."

"Oh," Belle breathed, pulling out four little glass containers that must have seemed to her eyes to be small vials or trinkets. "They're beautiful..." She held each one up, examining the color and the containers and laying them reverently in her lap- a pale pink, a rich burgundy, another with the slightest golden sheen (he really couldn't resist that one in particular), and a final that was clear. With a small smile, she swirled the container, watching as the liquid moved. "I'll put them on the bedside table."

He nearly laughed, and only the thought of her feelings kept the chuckle inside. "They open," he explained, plucking up one and twisting it carefully. He left the upper part setting in place and carefully handed the whole thing to her again.

She lifted the piece to display a tiny brush with the thick liquid dripping from its end and back into the bottle. "It's- oh," she breathed again, this time her nose wrinkling in distaste. "It smells like... like... I don't know what it smells like, but it smells," she finally decided. "I-it's very beautiful, though," Belle tried to compensate, giving him a stern scowl when he laughed aloud this time. "What _is_ it? Paint?"

"In a manner of speaking. They call it nail polish." He pulled another item, rectangular, from his pocket and set it in her palm. "You use this first, to smooth down the edge and surface of the nail, and then you pick your color and then use the clear coat."

Her free hand caught his and examined it closely. "You're not wearing any."

"It is traditionally worn by women." Not that he hadn't heard of men wearing it, but that might be yet another conversation to explore some other time. "Some wear it all of the time. Others on special occasions. Some women do not wear it at all. There are hundreds more colors; this is only a very meager sampling."

She pulled the brush from the burgundy bottle and brushed it over a nail, studying the thick line of color. "And how do they manage the opposite hand? Isn't it a bit... um, messy?"

"Well, my dear, I would hardly know," he chuckled lightly, unable to keep from smiling when she gave him that plaintive look, brilliant blue orbs rolling up toward him in long suffering. Gods, he hoped her patience was the only thing that continued to suffer on his account.

"Rumple..." she warned, mock-fierce.

His smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he bent down, savoring the moment to simple be with her. "There is a shop in Storybrooke where women will do this for you. When you feel up to it, I'll take you there. But I'm sure that with a little practice you'll pick it up nicely."

"Practice?" Belle mused, her gaze dropping to one hand that was clutching his ever-present cane.

"Perhaps I should have been more specific," he muttered, half to himself.

"Perhaps," she teased, giving his hand a squeeze and pulling him down for a chaste kiss. "It's a lovely gift."

"You're a lovely woman."

Her eyes met his, searching for long moments, and again he settled into the depth of the moment, the stillness hovering around them. Without breaking the moment, she managed to twist the lid back into place and set it aside. One hand slid to his shoulder, urging him to bend closer. "You're a very dear man," she murmured, dropping a sweet kiss to his cheek and a sweeter one on his lips as he started to deflect. "And some day I will manage to convince you of that fact."

"You are quite convincing."

She smiled a little, the smile growing wistful as she again recognized his comments for what they were. He was hardly dear, and scarcely a man. In time she would hear the names, the labels that the town used when they thought he wasn't listening. Admittedly, most of their names were rather accurate. He never tried to deny them. "Can I convince you to stay for a bit?"

He recognized her words for what they were—she was asking to not be left alone, and he wouldn't deny her. "Of course." Waiting for her to scoot over slightly, he settled beside her, guiding her feet over his lap and carefully tucking the blanket back into place. "Comfortable?"

"Yes," she murmured, "but not quite sleepy." This proclamation was followed by a yawn, prompting a pointed look from him and her sheepish look was in itself a reply. "Maybe a little sleepier than I thought."

"Close your eyes and rest, sweetheart," he soothed, rubbing her foot gently through the blanket. Although she seemed perfectly at home on this balcony, he couldn't help but pick up on the undercurrent of restlessness. It was a pinch of the anxiety that had her shaking in his shop the day before. He wondered how long it would be, if ever, before these clouded moments vanished altogether.

"You'll be here when I wake up?"

The question squeezed his heart, and he glanced down, half wondering if she was so drowsy that she wasn't completely aware of what she had asked. "Of course. Rest now."


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, this may turn out to be a series of one-shots, reflections on Rumbelle and the current season. This was inspired by a poem "I took my power in my hand/ And went against the world/Twas not so much as David had/But I was twice as bold". The more I watched "The Crocodile," the more the themes of cowardice and bravery twisted around in my head, and the muse ran with it…_

Belle is finding it to be extremely liberating, a fresh breeze ruffling through her locks and teasing at her ankles. Since her release, she can't seem to get enough of the fresh air. She is free to find her own way, no longer dependent on another for even the most basic necessities. No longer locked away as a prisoner or spectacle for Regina or any one else, no longer visited at their leisure and with no regard for her own privacy. She is free to sneak out the window of her (admittedly very lovely) sitting room and see Storybrooke on her own. Assuming, of course, that she makes it to the ground in tact.

She hopes that no one is around to witness this precarious descent, certainly not when she's clad in new clothes and clutching the gorgeous but highly impractical shoes. In her right hand, which is clutching at the drain pipe, she holds a pillowcase with her few other belongings. The evening before, Rumple had suggested a visit into town to purchase some more things for her to wear, but she was glad at the moment that this was all she had. These things are beautiful, downright luxurious after so many years of the same rough fibers of a shapeless and colorless gown and nothing for her feet but thin paper slippers. Still, none of these items are really hers. Has anything ever been truly hers? Belle can't remember a single time when she earned or purchased something with her own money.

"_Here you are," Rumpelstiltskin said quietly as he came up behind her and draped something soft and heather gray over her arm. "This is just the ticket."_

_She stepped back from the neatly lined rails of clothing and let her fingers slide experimentally over the fabric. "It's wonderful."_

_The corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile, and he clutched his cane with both hands in the way she had learned meant either he was amused or pleased, or possibly both. "It will keep you warm. Have you found some things?"_

"_The dress and this skirt and blouse. I… there's so much to see…" Her gaze flickered around the shop and gestured plaintively._

"_And much more besides this small shop, but don't trouble yourself over it. Pick out what you like for now, and we can always return. Perhaps in a few days. And don't worry about anyone else. I've made arrangements to have the shop to ourselves." He steered her gently toward another section and pulled out a set of breeches. "What of these? Perhaps a pair or two?"_

_Her nose wrinkled, and she shook her head. "These are men's things."_

"_Nay, not always in this land. There are hundreds of cuts and styles, and many women find them quite useful."_

"_I'd rather not," she decided, wishing this could be as simple as her blue work dress. In all her life, she never recalled getting much of a choice in her clothing. At Avonlea there were occasions when the seamstresses had given her fabrics to look over, and while lovely she generally was too lost in a book to be bothered. Even at that, she was only offered a few options. And in the Dark Castle, the clothing was provided for her. The endless choices here were making her head swim and sending her into overload again._

"_Anything else you'd like to try on?"_

_She shrugged helplessly, turning in a slow circle. "Rumple… there are so many things. And they're quite lovely, but…"_

"_But you're done for today," he observed, and she nodded in relief. She felt exhausted after only two hour, but she wasn't sure what else she might need. And as he'd said, there were plenty of other opportunities to come back later._

She was done. Done with this complicated twist of words and meanings, and right now she needed nothing more difficult than gaining the ground floor. Her foot found a railing, and she lowered herself carefully, arms trembling with the effort. _Nice and easy, Belle,_ she told herself as one foot finally landed solidly on the wood and took her weight and freed up a hand to keep a good grip on her small satchel of things. Pausing, she waited and listened for sounds from inside the house.

Nothing. He must still be busying himself downstairs. When she had left the kitchen, he'd called after her, asking if she wanted to go to town later as she started for the stairs. She'd given him a leveling glare and shook her head slightly in warning. It was one of the rare moments Rumpelstiltskin looked genuinely hurt.

At first shopping had been a world of wonders, with every sort of clothing she could think of and some she couldn't place. She'd almost felt faint from her deep blush when she lifted up something he called a thong and listened to his attempt at a polite explanation and followed by a roguish offer to demonstrate on a nearby mannequin_._ There were clothes to sleep in, things to wear outside, something he called a _bathing suit_, although she was certain she had never bathed in anything but her birthday suit before. And when he tried to explain it was for swimming, she'd blushed again at the thought of wearing it outdoors with others present while she wore scraps that amounted to little more than under garments. Hardly decent at all.

The shopping trip had proved enlightening, but once she caught a glimpse of something, a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye… and through the screen of a window, she caught sight of _her_. Regina. And she had felt like every bit of energy had been drained from her in an instant. He'd noticed a moment later and tried to discern what was wrong, his gaze following hers after the woman had slipped from sight. Belle hadn't been able to answer, the words sticking in her throat. So instead, she let it lead to a lie of omission. He had assumed she was tiring, and she tried to bring herself back to the task of finding clothing, but her heart was no longer in it.

And as her grip slips on the trellis, she knows her heart is torn. With a gasp, she clutches desperately, heart pounding at the loud creak when she catches her balance and the gutter. For long moments, Belle holds her breath and waits.

Somewhere nearby, she hears a door creak open and the familiar tread/clunk of his step and the cane in sync. She is on the side of the house, feet on the porch railing, pressed back as far as she can go. And clad in a completely impractical get up of blue lace, her heels in the pillow case that she is clutching. Fairies, she hopes the neighbors aren't around, pleads that he doesn't look this way. It was a relief during their trip into town to know they had the shop to themselves, and yet after she had spotted _that woman_, everything else had felt mechanical. Any outfits she tried after that were a blur, and she felt like a life size doll, little more than the one across the shop.

The tread is coming closer, and she spots him as he steps out further. _Don't turn to your left. Right, right, right._ He pauses, and she holds her breath again. Could he hear her thoughts?

Another sound from within the house surprises her, almost making her fall from her perch. It's a ringing sound, though not a bell, and a distant groaning that she had learned on her first full day at the home was simply the building settling. It is unnerving, but she forces herself to count silently to thirty and listen again.

Her feet sank gratefully into the thick grass, trembling as she steps forward and quickly rounds the first thick tree she spots. The main street through town is, she remembers, to her right, and she hurries in that direction, slipping from tree to tree until she has passed a few homes and has to cross the road.

The strange black coating feels strange to her bare feet, but she puts it from her mind until she has crossed the street and pull them out and is properly clad again. Belle glances around every few moments, looking for more of the cars that might be moving and which she should avoid, glancing over her shoulder and fighting the fear that _Regina_ might be lurking nearby. Or that Rumple might be following.

Part of her wishes that he would follow, wants him to call her back, to stop her, to embrace her. And yet, she pushes forward and tries to push it out of her mind. He is her weakness, and she knows if she doesn't put some space between them, every problem will only cycle back again. She can't change him, and she knows that. But she believes that someday he will find the power to choose to change. For himself.

At the corner, she spots shops and the alleyway that runs behind them. Belle slips along it, finding a pile of crates stacked at the business just to the south. She quickly pulls out the sweater and a bit of money he had insisted that she should keep with her _for emergencies._ The bills feel strange, but she folds them into a hidden pocket and makes for the main street and the inviting diner nearby.

It is better this way—taking her fate into her own hands, stepping beyond the confines of his realm. And as she pushes open the door to the establishment and realizes she's immediately gained the attention of everyone inside. Her face is coloring slightly, and her gaze quickly rakes across the room, to be sure _she_ isn't there. And instead she sees the sturdy matron at the counter, beckoning her inside with a terse but well-intentioned flick of her wrist.

Something steadies inside her, and Belle steppes forward and lets herself be intercepted by a tall, lithe young woman who has her ensconced in the relative privacy of a booth with a menu before any questions can be asked. She sinks gratefully into the comfort of the bench-like seat and takes the first full breath she'd taken since possibly the night before. It will be alright. She can figure out things, what with her possessions stashed away and the young woman already sliding a cool glass of water to her.

She will take her power in her hand… though a small corner of her mind whispers that not needing to return for anything else is also cowardly.


	3. Chapter 3

_Another little snippet from "The Crocodile," this time compliments of our friend Rumpelstiltskin/Mr. Gold. Hope you all enjoy, and again thanks for all of the lovely reviews. I borrowed a line or two from the episode, but I own nothing and no one or this show would probably be something like "Once Upon a Rumbelle…" _

The wolf-girl is staring at him like he's the harbinger of death. And while, yes, technically it is true that he was the harbinger of the curse, this one doesn't know that. Only Regina knows that, and he's certain Regina hasn't been sharing the information around Storybrooke. He doesn't care how she looks at him. To be honest he's used to it by now, and the only difference these days is that they remember all the nasty little deals he's made both in this world _and_ the last.

They can all stare at him like he's lost his mind. He doesn't care about any of them. And he doesn't care about anything except that he's absolutely frantic because he doesn't know where _she_ is. Twenty eight years they were separated because of the curse, and some time before that when he had... Well, it doesn't do him any good to think about that. He promised her that he could let go of his hate, and he has. Well, he's working on that, anyway. Past the wraith, he's kept his word.

_"Belle? Come on. At least come and eat something," he tried to coax, knowing she needs food. While she is looking more and more like the woman he knew all those years ago, he is well aware that she hasn't eaten anything since last evening._

_She has to know he's making an effort. After all, he's climbed up the stairs, which is not an easy feat in the least. Sometimes Rumpelstiltskin is certain that Regina made this home three stories to torment him. Yes, there are certain similarities to the Dark Castle, but the stairs are more than an inconvenience. _

The diner was reaching, but after he had carefully checked the house to be sure she wasn't simply avoiding him... Well, he was ready to reach. His search had also revealed that all of her things were gone. It was like she had never been there at all, and it made him shudder to think such a thing. And then he wondered, for the briefest moment, if she had ever been here at all. Was this some new madness of Regina or by-product of the unstable magic of this world?

But, no. She _had_ been here because he could see the small curve of the pillow where her head had rested all night and the way the sheets on that side of the bed were still in a mess from being hastily tossed aside. She'd had another nightmare, and he hadn't been there. It was little wonder that she had reacted so badly when he slipped in the back door this morning and found her waiting. He'd felt like one of those men who sneaks in after a night with another woman, how Nolan must have felt when he caught him at the drug store with two Valentine's day cards (_they're both so us_, indeed—the would-be prince may have been charming, but Nolan was little short of inept).

Still, it wasn't another woman. And Belle knew that. He wouldn't deny it was magic... but he needed her to know w_hy_. In order for her to know why, he has to find her. And that was why he went upstairs. But stark fear drove him to the streets and shops, where he is keenly aware he is neither wanted nor welcomed.

Granny's is a desperate long-shot, and he should know everything about a desperate soul. Apparently this wolf-girl does, too, because she is savoring every moment of this. She knows it's important to him, and she is seemingly taking her own sweet time in deciding just _how_important it is. It's on the tip of his tongue to demand she tell him what she knows, because it's blatantly obvious to him that she knows something.

He's going to be the one owing favors, from the look of things. First it was Charming, but he'd honestly not known where else to look. For all of the choices he's made, Rumpelstiltskin is fairly sure he can argue some points in his favor with this would-be prince. Without his help, he may still be searching for his love. Infinite forests were very literal. He didn't mince words with Nolan, and he certainly didn't shirk his responsibility where the wraith was concerned. Surely they can't blame him for Snow White and Emma's rather rash actions. The story runs that Regina was the one who tried the hat. How foolish to dabble in skittish magic like that.

It's on the tip of his tongue to remind this dear _Little Red_ of who, exactly, it was that afforded her the security of her beloved hood-enchanted hood, at that-when she makes that insufferable pun. "...doesn't ring a _bell_."

It ruffles his feathers alright, but he clenches his jaw and wills the stony mask to fall into place.

He's grateful, for those fleeting moments, that Charming steps in and presses for the answers that he isn't getting. It strikes him as ridiculous that this man is helping him at all—this man who has lost his own wife and daughter, but Rumpelstiltskin pushes it aside for now. There isn't time to dwell on it because they're finally getting some answers.

It's the little gray jacket that draws him in, and he can't help but feel a tiny measure of relief in seeing it, followed immediately by worry that she's out there alone and now without even the meager protection of the jacket. It's so ridiculous, as if she would be any safer out there with this jacket—no, mere sweater. His sweater.

"_Sit," Belle ordered gently, taking the ledger from his hands and setting it on a small table. Her arm hooked through his, and she walked him to the sofa in the little front room that afforded a lovely view of the yard._

_He let her lead, falling in step easily and humoring her. She looked like a woman on a mission. "Sweetheart, what-?"_

"_You're going to sit, and I am going to find some liniment for your leg. You've been grimacing all afternoon. And I know you insist you're fine, but I can tell it's hurting you more than it usually does."_

_The short but impassioned speech left him mute in shock. He submitted to her ministrations mostly because she didn't give him the time or space to resist. With something like amusement and chagrin, he was quickly settled, her busy fingers delicately wrapping a warmed flannel (which he recognized as a scarf he rarely used) around his leg. Admittedly, it did ease it a bit. It was rare that his leg truly ached, and he was accustomed to taking something over the counter or using a small electric heating pad on worse days._

"_Now, you stay here," she ordered sternly, tucking his cane just out of reach like a mother sliding the sweets out of reach._

"_Belle, no, this is fine," he argued, catching her hand and patting the upholstered seat beside him. _

"_Think of much better it will feel with some liniment," she returned, her free hand settling over his and squeezing it gently. Her heart is in her gaze, and it leaves him breathless again for a long moment, completely un-used to having anyone pause to consider his wants, his feelings, his needs. It leaves him flustered, and only after she's already in the next room does he remember to call her back and explain the lack of liniment in this era and break down the finer properties of Tiger Balm and Icy Hot._

_By the end of it all, his leg did feel better, and he had her curled up beside him and shivering a little as the evening cooled everything down. He'd spotted the cardigan draped over the sofa, one that he'd somehow managed to shrink a little so that it no longer fit him just so. Stretching across her, he snagged it and draped it around her shoulders before taking up a ledger and handing over a book she had been reading. They'd spent the rest of the evening in companionable quiet._

To his relief, their unlikely trio is on the move again, stepping out of the café and heading down the streets. He's thankful he doesn't have to do any more explaining, and while the girl is giving her own stumbling explanation on scent properties, he, frankly, doesn't care if she turns into a wolf on the spot. So long as he finds his Belle.

Belle _has_ to know what it's costing him to use magic. Why. She has to understand that it's not just about the power, not about the power for power's sake. Although he'll be turned to a snail himself before he gives us the power to protect her at _any and all costs._ His heart jumps to his throat every time he has the slightest thought that Regina might find her before he does.

She knows so few people here, and he knows how easy it is to go missing in Storybrooke. How easily one can be hidden. Gods and fairies, he went twenty eight years in the bubble of this place without the slightest inkling she might be alive, much less in the hospital basement—the hospital he passed thousands, nay perhaps millions, of times.

And speaking of places he has passed millions of times, they come to a sudden halt outside Game of Thorns. It set his blood to ice when the girl admitted she could track no longer, and a final piece of reality clicked into place. Of course. He should have finished the man when he had the chance. He knows now, and it shakes him to the core because until he _finds_ her, sees her for himself, in the flesh, nothing is safe. And he will do anything to find her this time. Anything.


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh the end of The Crocodile brings out so many endless feels for me. It is the "Into the Deep" as far as Rumbelle goes. This was partly inspired by one of the saddest quotes from the movie "Anna and the King" when one of the concubines, separated from the one she truly loves asks "If love is a choice, then who would ever choose such exquisite pain?" Borrowed a single quote from the episode, which is really from "The Pleasures of Life" by John Lubbock. _

No one has the power to undo her quite like Rumpelstiltskin. He makes her angry, furious, in fact. And he hurts her in ways that make her heart ache so badly that she almost thinks there was something to the sweet oblivion of pre-broken curse.

The incident in the mines wasn't, to be perfectly honest, anything new. _Incident _is such a deceitful word. It carries none of the terror of being handcuffed to a racing cart, much less with the threat of passing the town line and her life as she knew it ceasing to exist. When she's barely regained her life. And then, before she can fully register the terror of dropping the key (because sometimes she simply fumbles), the cart suddenly reverses. And before her brain can process _that_, she's dragged back to the two men she was trying to get away from in the first place.

To be truthful, she mostly believes what Rumpelstiltskin says. She registers the sheer terror that drove him to find her, to be sure she was safe. And she wasn't safe. But still, she doesn't want to see him or talk to him because he does this to her—leaves her undone, confused and unsure, and it's easier to sort out when there's space between them.

She's angry with him, but she's angrier still with her father. Things hadn't been easy between them in a long time. After her mother had passed, he'd never really known what to do with her, except attempt to over-protect her… while also managing to arrange a marriage between her and Gaston. Her resentment probably started then, but it hit an all time high in the mine—that narrow underground space, all too horribly like the underground where she spent twenty-eight years, with dust in place of the dank and antiseptic smells.

Shaking herself slightly to push away the memories, Belle fingers the single key in her hand and the convenient little metal circle like she had seen others carry, the keys connected together to make it easier to find them. Belle had already decided that she needed to find some of those satchels she saw so many women carrying—they looked convenient for things she might need to carry all of the time, although she wondered why the men never used something so handy. Perhaps it was one of the strange quirks of this world, something like the women wearing polish on their nails but not the men? With a little shake of her head, she set aside the questions for later, perhaps Ruby could clarify for her.

Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the door and steps into the dim, dust-choked, and enchanting room. Her eyes can't take it in, too many shelves and rows, and as she glides forward even in the dim light she sees more books than she could ever read in another twenty eight years. Later, she'll marvel that she ever survived so long without stories. Stepping further and further, she can see what appears to be sections, books divided some by authors and some by subjects, and an area simply for books for children. Ingenious. She's sure she could spend ages simply walking these aisles. She's found a new haven.

"_We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth._." The voice floats out to her, breaking the sacred silence and echoing through the vacant spaces like something unworldly. And it is. They are. Unwordly. Other.

Her breath catches, and for a long moment she is off balance, trying to gain some frame of mind as he steps out from among the dark stacks and toward the pool of light where she stands. It's always dark with him, always hovering on the edges of gray, teetering into the deep. She is light and illuminates what he often wishes would remain hidden. They sharpen one another and often clash horribly.

And still she loves him. Loves him so much that it angers her—that it sends up all of her defenses. Before Belle can stop herself, she's already questioning his motives. She barely catches that this place has an apartment, before she's in it again. Edging for the catch, digging out exactly why he is bothering to do all of this. And she already knows why, even though neither one of them will say it.

Love might be layered, but she never expected it to have sub-terrains that go so deep. She hasn't been very good with under ground. She's stepping back now as he advances, craving distance while wishing so badly that she could let herself step forward and into the arms she knows would wrap instantly around her. Welcoming her. Despite Ruby and Granny, and in spite of the sheriff's concern, she's been terribly lonely.

He's speaking again, easing her concerns about his intentions and filling the air with words spun of gold. Everyone whispers of his way with deals, the twists and deceits, but Belle knows better than anyone that he always tells the truth. Maybe not the entire truth, but he never directly lies. That is Regina's realm. His shadows feed on light, and the story he is spinning is the saddest she knows.

Her heart is breaking for him, not simply for them but for _him_ and for all the ages of his loneliness. She's frozen in place, frozen in time as the long hidden story tumbles out, and she finds herself drawn in. She's telling it with him, piece by piece fitting into place as though she were reading a text before her. Everything she wondered about him, so many _why's_ answered in the few simple sentences. It's on the tip of her tongue to assure him, to steady him as he's steadied her so many times in the few days they were united.

But she isn't given the chance. Because he's stepping forward, impeccably undone in his flawless suit and tie and polished shoes. One hand reaches out, and she doesn't shy away from it as it cups her cheek as gently as if she were their porcelain cup. As though he treasures her and worries he that if he doesn't walk away that he will invariably do more damage.

And the tears are falling because she knows he might. Yet in this moment, she doesn't think anything could be worse than this exquisite pain. It swallows her, and her world shrinks to the two of them—Belle and Rumpelstiltskin, beauty and the beast, light and dark. His hand is warm and trembling, and if she could bring herself to move, she would take it and never let go.

The words are her undoing, and before her next breath fills her lungs, he walking away. Away from her. Away from them. And no matter what his reasons, no matter how _right_ he may be, her heart aches harder with every step. She can't let him go. She won't ever let him go.

At his name, he stops, and she wasn't entirely expecting that. Names and naming have such meaning to him, but there is something more about the way he acts when she says it. He turns back now, and he looks suddenly like a man who has endured the centuries, the secrets and the scorn of worlds. They weigh on him, and her mind goes blank for a long moment.

It's food, of all the ridiculous things, that she speaks of, and there is another awkward moment when of course he's eaten hamburgers. A small part of Belle wishes the floor would open up and swallow her. End this painful pause. _Do the brave thing and braveness will follow._

Time to swallow her own advice, and she soldiers on, desperately trying to mend the endless burnt bridges between them. Because anything else is inconceivable. When he finally consents, her heart leaps, and she can feel the bit of something still flickering between them, and she tucks that feeling away for later.

She has a big job to do here in this library, and she knows she will take Ruby and Granny up on the offer of a room at least for a few days. But for now, she finally feels like she can breathe again, as though her world has tilted back into place. For a long moment, Belle fights the urge to follow him, the ache to return with him, to his shop, to his home, to be with him. But she lets it ebb and ease again.

Their little world is made and undone again with words and actions, and they are working to reorder it. And this afternoon has showed her that he _does_ care, and that he's fighting his urge to control by giving her the space she's requested. He's caring for her, giving her a life here, one that she knows could be entirely of her own making. For the second time he let her go, and she will always come back to him. Always. And in the mean time, she knows he will be waiting.

_I have to believe that with everything these two went through and continue to go through that the horror of that last scene to "The Outsider" will reflect their relationship up to this point. She always comes back to him. Rumbelle on, dear shippers._


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter sort of came out of nowhere. I was writing a piece set between "Child of the Moon" and "Into the Deep," when Mr. Gold reminded me that I'd forgotten something. Who am I to argue? Angsty, fluffy, and Rumbelle-ish. Enjoy. Reviews are fic world's most powerful magic. Have a magical day!_

He heard the crowds outside, saw the mob storming through the town and had decided from the beginning that it was safer to stay out of their way. Rumpelstiltskin had no business with any of them, nor did he want any of their anger turned on him. Best to step aside and let them have it out with the wolf-girl. Ruby Lucas was cagey, and he was hardly worried about her.

What _did_ worry him was Belle. He hadn't seen her in a few days, trying to give her the space she was wanted. If he'd had his way, they would both be at his home now, far away from the mess outside and certainly safe from a wolf on the prowl. He wasn't stupid; he knew Belle had struck up a friendship with Ruby Lucas. And while he was glad to see she was making friends, he knew he wasn't on the best of terms with the Lucas family. And he was more than aware of what a werewolf was capable of doing.

One of the first things he had taught Belle to use was a phone, making sure she knew the numbers to reach him and how to use directory assistance. Then again, public phones are scarce these days, and if she went anywhere tonight, the chances of her having a phone available were slim.

He'd told himself not to be such a worry-wart. And when that didn't work, he had phoned the library's main line. His call went un-answered. If he was being perfectly honest, _all_ of his calls went unanswered. At first he had thought he should give it a half hour or so. Belle was smart and wouldn't get herself mixed up in a mob. She was probably lost in a book. And then he decided to try calling a few times in succession, reasoning if she was around, she might bother answering if only to find out who was so insistent. As time wore on, however, he grew increasingly restless.

Cane in hand, he took to the streets, crossing the short distance to the library and glad to hear the crowd several blocks down the street and continuing away from him. Good. Let them all go mad, let them run around like perfect idiots. They might as well hang signs with '_fresh meat_' around their necks, all but asking to be attacked. He had only one concern, and she was about five feet and two inches tall and nowhere in sight.

"Belle?" he called loudly, rapping at the library's still papered-over door. After only a few heartbeats, his fingers fished into his pocket and he pulled out his copy of the key and let himself in, closing and locking it behind him. "Belle, sweetheart?"

Rumpelstiltskin winced as the second name tumbled out before he could stop it. They were feeling out this relationship again, and while they still had a standing date for hamburgers, their conversations were short and casual (although she had sought him out the other morning with a question about groceries and exactly how many books she might need to trade for the produce she wanted to buy). And yet, he couldn't have stopped the affectionate name from slipping out if he had tried.

"Belle?" he called a little louder, finding the section where she had recently been working. Books were piled all around, and there was a clear sign from where she was cleaning and what remained to be done. The dust rag was folded neatly, telling him that she hadn't abandoned it in a hurry. "Belle?"

In moments he was crossing to the corridor that led up to the apartment. "Belle? Belle, are you alright?" he called louder now, ascending as fast as he could and knocking loudly several times before fishing out the master key and finding her place as empty as the library below. He felt sick, and it took all of his focus to hurry back down the steps and remember to lock everything up behind him. Checking his phone yet again, he stepped into the deserted road, listening for the crowd.

The air felt charged, and he was certain a storm would be coming through later tonight. Across the street, he caught a glimpse of a light on at the diner. Giving another quick glance up and down the road, he crossed and let himself _hope_ for a half a moment. _Gods, please be there._

He all but shouldered open the door, grunting when it was locked firmly. "Belle? Belle!" He didn't care who heard him, he _needed_ to find her.

"Here," came that soft, warm voice, the single word making him lean against the building, weak with relief as she fumbled with the lock and finally succeeded in pushing open the door.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, free arm crushing her close and rubbing at her back when she trembled against him. "Are you alright?"

The dark head nodded against his shoulder, her fingers curling into the cuff of his jacket. "I… they're… they're going after Ruby."

"She can protect herself," he tried to assure her, afraid if he didn't, if he let her go, that she would be out the door before he could stop her. "Are _you_ alright?"

It was obvious to him that she wasn't alright. Belle was trembling slightly against him, looking flighty and nervous like she had on that fateful day the curse broke—when she had been standing in his shop looking like a frightened rabbit that would bolt if he moved suddenly. "Come on, now, inside," he coaxed, moving them forward and pausing only to lock the door. Magic at his disposal or not, Rumpelstiltskin wanted doors locked, and others kept _out_ right now. He guided her at a snail's pace to the corner booth farthest from the door where he could see she had been sitting previously.

When the back of her legs hit the booth's seat, she automatically sat, looking up at him with a dazed and lost expression that broke his heart.

A quick glance to the table showed a nearly full cup of milk in a soup mug and a toasted muffin, already split and butter but scarcely touched. His fingers lifted slowly, cupping her cheeks and sliding through her hair, feeling and testing. "Look up at me," his voice pitched low and soothing as he stroked reassuringly, feeling for anything amiss. "Are you hurt?"

"N-no," she answered, shaking her head and still flighty but not avoiding his touch or his nearness. If anything, Belle pressed into the caresses. By the time he stroked over her shoulders and back, he was standing directly in front of her, and she was still seated but almost all of her upper body rested against him.

"It's alright," Rumpelstiltskin continued to repeat, gently stroking her upper arms and down her forearms, coming to a dead stop at her wrists when she hissed softly and flinched. "It's alright, let me see," he implored as she shifted suddenly.

"I'm fine," she tried to protest, but he caught her arm and carefully turned it upward. A few dark spots marred the fair skin, and he crouched beside her, ignoring the protest from his leg. He ducked a little lower, catching her attention and finally getting weary crystalline blue eyes to meet his gaze. "It… it's nothing."

He shook his head. "They're bruised. Who did this to you?"

Again her head shook slightly, and she ducked, breaking his intense stare. "No… it wasn't… it was an accident."

"Someone _accidentally_ bruised your wrists?" he asked skeptically, thumb ghosting over the dark mar but not actually touching it. "_Who_ did this?"

"No one," she answered, picking at her skirt and leaning her head against him again. When he pressed again for an answer, she huffed and swallowed, mumbling something into the fabric of this clothes and making him ask her to repeat herself as he struggled not to give into the sick feeling and the urge to go on a rampage against everyone in this idiotic town.

It was unnerving to see her like this—so small and seemingly fragile. She was undone, and frankly he still didn't understand how she had survived so long in a basement. Belle couldn't stand small spaces. She'd balked the first time he tried to coax her into the car, and he was sure only the numerous windows made it bearable. For the most part, they walked everywhere, and thank magic that this town was relatively small. As large as his basement was, she had never set foot inside it, nor did he think she was ever like to do so, magic or not.

Pulling himself back to the present and to the woman still shaking, he gently rolled back the sleeve of her blouse. He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of her. It hadn't escaped his notice that she still had yet to answer his question. She had only delayed a response. The darker parts of him yearned to go on a rampage, hunt down whoever hurt his love, and make sure it never happened again. Somewhere in the siren of anger, he has managed to realize that she's afraid and terribly upset, and he can't run off and leave her like this.

"Sweetheart, you're frightening me," he murmured gently, letting her roll the sleeve back into place, covering the offending marks. He slid one hand slowly upward, giving her time to see the movement and not startle, and he cupped her cheek lightly, thumb rubbing lightly over the soft curve.

"She was afraid she'd hurt me," came the helpless answer, the first of the words followed by a fresh sheen of tears brimming but not falling. It was almost worse this way—when she tried to be brave and hold it in. She didn't have to be brave for him. He knew she was everything he was not.

"You _are_ hurt," Rumpelstiltskin countered, his voice pitched steady and coaxing. "Did _she_… Did …" he was afraid to mention Regina, afraid it would send her into a panic, afraid it would set off his own barely contained anger.

"We… we were going to chain her up in the library," Belle whispered. "They were hunting her down, and they would have killed her, but… She… She said she couldn't stay there. And before I could stop her, she handcuffed me to the… I don't know… Shelf? Pipe?" The words spilled out, each faster than the last, her voice pitching higher and higher as the story tumbled from her lips.

His fingers rubbed a little firmer at the questions, careful and calming, all while hoping it was something to ground her. "Alright… it's alright, now. How did you…"

"Granny," she breathed the word and sniffled hard, still trying to swallow the emotions before tears streaked down her cheeks. "It was alright at first. I tried to read a bit… it…I kept _hearing_ things outside. And I couldn't get away, and then it was too much like… when I couldn't get away…. Granny, anyway… She came to check on us… She… She brought me over here, and set this out, but she had to go again. And I couldn't remember your numbers," Belle finally admitted, blinking and sending a few more streaks down her face. Another sniffle, and her hands came up to rub away the dampness and rub at tired, red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh, Belle," he murmured, offering his handkerchief. He paused for several moments, hand carding through her hair and rubbing between her shoulders until she seemed to have regained composure. As much as he wanted to be angry with a certain Miss Lucas, he found that he wasn't nearly as upset as he'd anticipated. Although Belle was frustrated and hurt, even he had to admit that Ruby Lucas had acted in Belle's best interests. The mob would have torn her apart had she tried to intervene. And there was no way Belle would have let the girl leave without her.

"_No one decides my fate but me!"_ The memory came unbidden, and he had to recognize that the stubborn streak was as alive now as ever. These emotions had nothing to do with some bruises, but they had everything to do with loss of control, loss of independence.

He had given her space and freedom, given her the means to become independent. Mostly. To be honest, he wasn't charging her rent, and he was privately funding her salary. So far, she had not asked, and when she _does_ ask, he will answer truthfully. Until then, he'd decided to quietly take care of this for her. To take care of her, even knowing she would object. And if she decides to move on to another place or another job, he'll let her go—but he's going to be sure she's treated fairly, no matter how much she protests.

The quiet settles around them, and she gives the front doors a fleeting glance. "Will you stay for a bit?"

"Of course," he answered before she even finished the question. He wanted to take her to his home, to pull her close and settle like a blanket around her, to fall asleep and wake up breathing in the soft coconut scent of her shampoo. But he'll settle for this diner and its secluded booth. "Finish up some of this." He slidthe plate in front of her and reached for the milk. It was no longer warm, and he eyed it suspiciously. "Should I re-heat it?"

Her head shook as she took a small bite of the muffin and toyed with the fork. "I don't think I want it. It tasted good when it was warm, but now…" Belle trailed off, and he left it at that. Eating seemed to ground her, even if she was taking small bites and eating slower than he could ever remember seeing someone eat.

Eventually even the little chewing slowed, and she set the fork down, hands falling to her lap to toy with the napkin. "I don't think I can eat anything else."

"That's alright," he soothed, glad to see she'd managed at least half of the muffin, all told. He was leaving the plates and dishes here. Even if she'd acted in Belle's best interests, he could only imagine what it did to Belle to be left alone in the library. To be helpless. Miss Lucas could manage to clean up the remains of the snack come morning.

Her hand lifted to her forehead, rubbing against her brow as her eyes closed briefly. Although some of her color was back, she was worn from the evening's events.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to stay in one of the guest rooms," Rumpelstiltskin murmured lightly. Her room was still made up as it had been when she was with him, and it was tempting every night to sleep in there. But he hadn't. It didn't feel right to be in that room without her. The room waited, like him.

She reached with her free hand, closing it around his in a soft squeeze of thanks. "I don't think it's for the best," she murmured. "I'm sorry."

He nodded, attempting to be chivalrous. "Come on, then." Sliding carefully out of the booth, he took his cane and offered a hand up, trying not to seem pleased when she followed docilely, her small and slender fingers twining with his.

They were crossing the threshold into the inn when she paused for a moment. "Where…"

"Granny can spare a room for you tonight," he answered briefly. _And a good brunch come morning, too,_ he added silently, glaring at the empty front desk as if Widow Lucas was standing there. He reached across the counter and found a key for a room that would be tucked away from the noise the diners would make come breakfast. One hastily scrawled should be sufficient to convey that the room was occupied and was to be left undisturbed. He trusted his handwriting was enough to speak volumes. It was, in fact, the very least the Lucas family could do.

His hand slid around Belle, leading her to the stairs and then to the room in the back corner. At the door, he unlocked it and dropped a warm kiss to the top of her head.

Her fingers wrapped a little tighter around his. "Rum?" she burred, letting her head drop to his shoulder.

"Yes?" he answered, rubbing her back.

"I… Could you…"

"Anything, Belle." He meant it. Anything she wanted.

"Could you stay a bit," she asked, starting to pull back slightly. "I don't… I'm so tired, but I don't want to be here with everyone else away." She meant _alone_, and he tried not to think about just how much of her life she had spent exactly like that.

"Of course," he saved her having to stumble through any other explanations, leading her in and locking the door behind them. "The sofa, then, yeah?"

She went straight to it, her feet automatically obeying though her mind was clearly hazy with exhaustion. Belle toed off her shoes, and she settled onto the seat, her head lolling against the back of it and eyes sliding half shut.

He snagged the quilt from the end of the bed and joined her, settling at one end and guiding her with little urging to curl against his side. One pillow and his thigh provided a cushion, and together they settled the quilt around her. He had tried very hard to give her space, but he couldn't resist the urge to slide fingers through her silky curls, the faintest smile teasing at the corners of his mouth when she gave a gentle sigh and relaxed.

A slender hand curled around his knee, and he relaxed, too. Her hair was tangled, and he knew it would be a mess come morning, but the motion of his fingers was calming her, sending her off to much-needed sleep. And an aching back for a day would be well worth the price of a night spent sitting her and keeping watch over his Belle. "Sleep, sweetheart."

_Rumbelle on, friends!_


End file.
